Requiem for an UNCLE Agent
by Gevaudan
Summary: Today the halls of UNCLE were filled with monochrome hues of black and white, a mark of respect for an agent down... Written for the 'Short Affair' challenge at Section VII. The prompt words were 'retain' and 'black'.
On a normal working day, the corridors of UNCLE were filled with a myriad of rainbow colours. Mr Solo, for example, favoured a blue suit, while Mr Kuryakin, Mr Waverly and Mr Slate preferred burgundy, tweed and green respectively. The secretaries wore a fetching lilac while Miss Dancer, as an enforcement agent, had free choice in her attire and seemed to rotate through almost every available colour in the spectrum.

The official funeral had been held yesterday, a closed casket affair with the deceased family in full attendance. UNCLE, as a dutiful employer had sent both a wreath and representatives in the form of Mr Waverly and the appropriate section head, in this case Napoleon Solo. Doubtless there were many others within the organisation who would have liked to attend and pay their own respects but the need for UNCLE to **retain** its cover overrode their individual wishes.

It was for that reason that UNCLE traditionally held their own ceremony to mark the passing of their honoured dead.

Today there was no coffin and no family of course, at least not in the traditional blood sense. The Recreation Hall in the gymnasium, the largest space within the New York Headquarters was repurposed with rows of chairs laid out and a photograph of Agent Timothy Collins taking pride of place at the front. At the appointed hour UNCLE's staff filed in, one by one, with only those on assignment, in the infirmary or monitoring critical systems exempt.

There was always a systematic seating arrangement in place, particularly for fallen Section Two agents. The deceased partner sat in the front row, flanked by Mr Waverly at one side and Napoleon Solo at the other. More often than not, Solo would be accompanied by Illya Kuryakin and then, alongside and behind them, the other agents of Section Two would be seated in pairs, partner alongside partner, with the rest of the staff seated behind.

Clearing his throat Mr Waverly took his place at the lectern and looked out solemnly over his assembled staff.

"Mr Collins," he began, "was an exceptional agent and a good friend to many of you here today. He joined UNCLE in 1962 and along with his partners, Mr Smith and Mr Cochrane in Section Three and most recently Mr Dillon in Section Two, he was responsible for the disruption of a number of our adversaries' most fiendish plots, often putting himself at grave personal risk. He consistently and valiantly upheld the ideals of this organisation and, regretfully, paid the ultimate price for his loyalty."

There was a moment's pause.

"I urge you all to remember him. Remember him and his sacrifice as you go about your duties, whatever they may be. Remember that you too are responsible for maintaining the charter upon which UNCLE stands, and that in doing so you are helping to rid this world of the villains that Mr Collin's fought so bravely to defeat."

He broke off again, seemingly able to catch the eye of every individual person gathered in the room with his steely gaze as he looked out over the gathered throng. He allowed his words to sink in before he spoke again.

"Let us all take a moment to remember the life of Timothy Stephen Collins."

The silence that fell was absolute, undisturbed by even the shuffling of feet. At its conclusion, the staff were dismissed, quietly exiting the room to resume their work. Solo and Kuryakin were among the last to depart, leaving Matt Dillon in quiet conversation with Mr Waverly. Side by side they made their way to their office in silence, acknowledging offered condolences with a solemn nod. Although neither had known Tim well on a personal level, he was an enforcement agent, one of them and although they knew the risks, they all felt the loss keenly. None more so than Napoleon who had been responsible for his recruitment, recognising his talents as he worked in Section Three.

With a heavy sigh, the dark haired man swung their office door shut and dropped into his chair. Illya looked up from the report he had begun to read, his face impassive but his eyes understanding.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, closing his folder to give his partner his undivided attention.

"There's not much to say is there? Just..." he broke off abruptly, suddenly fascinated by the piece of paper on the desk before him.

"Just...?"

Solo groaned, his expression embarrassed, before he clearly resolved to forge on with his train of thought.

"Just promise me I won't ever have to stand where Dillon was stood."

Illya crossed the room to perch on the edge of Solo's desk, his proximity forcing his partner to meet his steady gaze.

"You know that's not a promise I can make _tovarish_. Nor can I ask the same promise of you."

Napoleon nodded.

"You never know," he commented, forcing levity into his tone, "we might retire at forty, move to the countryside, meet a pretty girl each and die surrounded by doting grandchildren at 103."

Illya laughed outright.

"We might," he acknowledged, "but even if we make it to retiring from Section Two, I don't think UNCLE will relinquish its hold on us that easily. It is too much a part of who we are."

Napoleon nodded.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he admitted.

"Nor would I my friend," Illya agreed. "Nor would I."


End file.
